


Payment in Full

by Askellie



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Burns, Dominance, Dubious Consent, Ecto-Vagina (Undertale), Electrocution, Erotic Electrostimulation, M/M, Medical Kink, Painful Sex, Posessive Sex, Prostitution, Rough Sex, Torture, Underfell, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:21:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24619015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askellie/pseuds/Askellie
Summary: The only thing that matters is Papyrus, the little shit. Sans will do anything for him. Getting down on his knees for Gil is an easy price to pay.---An extra scene fromNilchance's'Ain't this the Life' series, specifically Chapter 27 of 'Every me and every you'.  Gil takes Sans upstairs into his bedroom for a bad time.
Relationships: Papyrus/Sans (Undertale), Sans/Original Undertale Character(s)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 96





	Payment in Full

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [every me and every you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15227427) by [nilchance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/pseuds/nilchance). 



> A lovely anonymous requester wanted a glimpse at the kind of bad time Sans might have had with Gil from Chapter 27: Can't Say No from Nilchance's 'Every me and every you'. Written with Nil's extremely generous permission! :D
> 
> I've labelled the fic as non-con even though technically Sans is consenting...he wouldn't be doing this if he had any better options. 
> 
> Make sure you read the fic warnings! There's a lot of bad touch and unhappy happenings here.

Gil’s room looks like the inside of a seedy motel room, an echo of the dozens Sans has been in before. The bed is an unmade mess of sweaty, stained sheets and the bare floor is covered in a sticky film that Sans doesn’t want to think too hard about. It makes him absurdly grateful that Papyrus has always been a pedantic neat-freak. Even when they were living in squalor, their bedding always smelled fresh and their meagre belongings were stored neatly and obsessively preserved. Hell, even when they were living between garbage cans, Papyrus would dutifully pick up all the trash and sweep the cobblestones of grime with more seriousness than a babybones should ever have to muster.

The little shit. Sans will do anything for him. Getting down on his knees for Gil is an easy price to pay.

Or so he tells himself, trying to ignore the implications of Gil’s toothy smile. The goddamn judge is treating him to a fucking novella on Gil’s sadistic desires, too much fucking information for Sans right now. He has enough to contend with hoping his brother doesn’t regain consciousness before Gil finishes healing up the rest of his spine. He should be giving Gil his full focus, but half his attention is attuned to any sounds echoing up the stairwell, whether it’s a wail of agony or a whisper-soft groan. All he wants is to get this over with quickly, but he doubts Gil will be that kind to him. He expects full payment, after all.

“Strip,” Gil orders with no more pretence of kindness or patience. Every other time Sans has come to him, it’s been with enough gold to buy some measure of grudging respect. Without it, Gil’s eyes gleam brightly with equal measures of eagerness and contempt. He’s wanted this for a while. Sans has seen the ugly flame of his desire growing brighter with each visit for Gil’s services, and also seen the poorly masked disappointment that every time Sans has been able to cough up the necessary gold. Now, finally, he has Sans right where he wants him, and the malicious delight in his expression is nearly enough to turn Sans’s stomach.

His jacket goes first, falling off his shoulders like a layer of armor, leaving him in just a thin woolen pullover and his shorts. He dumps them both into a messy pile beside him. He’s kind of hoping he can keep his shoes on -- a nifty trick he learned from the whore who taught him the trade: if you need to make a quick getaway when sex turns sour, it’s a hell of a lot easier if you don’t have to worry about stepping on broken glass in the back alleys. Unfortunately Gil’s flat look of disapproval nixes that idea, and Sans grudgingly kicks his sneakers and socks into the pile with the rest of his clothing.

“Where do you want me?” Sans asks, gesturing nonchalantly to his bare bones. His nakedness has never been much cause for embarrassment, though Gil’s frank gaze does its best to make him squirm. 

“On the bed,” Gil orders, easing out of the white jacket he wears to make himself look more professional. He tuts when Sans crawls onto the mattress, shuffling towards the center. “No, not like that. Let me show you.”

The position he wants from Sans is an unusual one. Instead of aligning to the headboard, he guides Sans to lie face up in the opposite direction, feet pointing towards the pillows and head hanging back off the end of the bed. It’s a pose that leaves his cervical vertebrae submissively exposed and his skull craned at an unpleasant angle while his face is about level with Gil’s crotch. Lovely.

Still, it’s not like Sans didn’t know what he was here for. He reaches back, palming the prominent bulge that’s starting to make itself known at the front of Gil’s trousers. It’s an awkward angle to navigate the intricacies of the button and zip of his fly, but with only a minimum of fumbling Sans gets them out of the way to see what he’s working with. Gil’s shaft isn’t long, but it’s thick and heavy, the tip flaring outwards like an arrowhead. Uneasily Sans realises that the new, difficult angle of his neck means it’ll be even more invasive when it goes down his throat, leaving him without any of the usual tricks he uses to keep from choking. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, and Gil gives a dark, appreciative chuckle..

“Put that talented mouth of yours to good use, Sans,” Gil says, leaning forwards. He has the rest of Sans’s body laid out before him like a fresh canvas; clean white bones ready for Gil’s special kind of artistry. “We don’t want to leave your brother waiting.”

Sans is thankful Gil can’t see the way his mouth twists in disgust before smoothing out again. A small tweak of his magic gets his saliva flowing more readily, lubricating his mouth. With both hands he gives Gil’s shaft a generous squeeze before guiding carefully between the sharp points of his teeth.

The taste isn’t so bad. Sans has never been especially picky about what goes into his mouth, but he’s eaten garbage that’s tasted better than the unwashed sweat of some of his Johns. Gil is clean, at least. There’s a strange scent on him, like chrome and flowers, that makes Sans wonder if the bastard is actually wearing that stupid cologne Mettaton has started marketing in bizarre advertising segments along with his usual executions and propoganda. It’s just as well his mouth is full; inappropriate laughter probably wouldn’t improve Gil’s temperament.

It takes every ounce of control Sans has not to flinch when Gil’s claws stroke down his bare femurs, squeezing them with a tenderness that might have been pleasant if Sans wasn’t entirely sure he was just testing the integrity of the bone.

“Mind your teeth, my sweet. This may sting a little.”

Sans has dealt with Gil before, which means he thinks he knows what to expect. Even so, the first tingling jolts that run down his legs makes his spine arch and his breath shudder, not wholly in pain. Gil’s healing is brutal, but the touch of his electrical magic is almost gentle. It prickles warmly across his bones, almost like a caress, and though Sans didn’t expect to get anything out of this his pelvic cradle gives an interested twinge. The magic between his joints flares with heat, flushing with the natural crimson of his magic, an unfortunately visible indicator for Gil’s unabashed viewing. 

“You like that?” Gil asks, sounding dangerously pleased. Sans rolls his eyes, but since it’s currently his job to keep Gil happy he offers an exaggeratedly agreeable moan that thrums around the cock in his mouth. The way it pulses in response is frankly gratifying -- Sans is proud of his skills, thank you very much -- but before he can think of trying to expedite the process of getting Gil off the scaly hands on his femurs crackle with a stronger jolt of charge that makes him grunt in surprise. 

“Yes,” Gil groans, the word stretching into a sibilant hiss. His hands feel like they’re buzzing against Sans’s leg bones, the pleasant tingle turning into whip-cracks of jolting heat. His bones shudder with it, and so does his magic. His tongue crackles in his mouth with rippling tremors, any attempt at oral technique is completely derailed. His jaw locks stiff while soft, wet interior of his mouth goes sloppy and loose, but Gil’s hoarse groan seems to suggest he’s enjoying himself just fine. It’s his magic and his element -- it couldn’t hurt him even if it wasn’t being diffused through Sans’s body first, but either he’s enjoying the feedback or just the way it makes Sans shake uncontrollably beneath him.

The intensity increases by merciless degrees, just quickly enough that Sans can’t quite adjust to it. He’s a frog in a pot with the stove turned up too high, the blistering heat riding the wave of sensation ahead of the trailing numbness. He’d have thought Gil was losing himself in the chase of his orgasm, but pulses are so even and regular it can’t be anything but deliberate. Sans is grudgingly impressed even as his eye-lights burst like inconvenient fireworks and his spine jerks with increasingly painful convulsions. His femurs feel too hot, and he’s sure Gil’s handprints are going to be scorched into the bone. It isn’t at all surprising when his HP gauge shudders, threatening to drop by dangerous increments that Sans can’t afford to lose.

But just as he’s wondering if he needs to shortcut them both to the bottom of the nearest lake -- Sans doesn’t need to breathe, but Gil sure as hell does -- a violent slap of healing magic slams into him, even hotter than the flare of electricity. It tops him back out, and that too makes his body writhe with unwelcome gratitude. It’s like choking down a draught of Gerson’s awful sea tea -- the bitter, salty tincture blistering its way down his throat accompanied by its uncomfortably assuaging relief.

If Sans were a normal, sensible, well-adjusted monster, he’d probably just find it unpleasant, but unfortunately he is none of those things. Instead he gives a pathetic twitch when Gil’s hand leaves his femur and curls around the burning cusp of his pubic symphysis.

“I know you want this, my sweet,” Gil coos benevolently. It threatens to make Sans gag in a way that has nothing to do with the cock currently clawing its way down his throat. “You’re being so good. Do you want me to touch you?”

It’s framed as a question, but Sans knows it's nothing of the sort. This isn’t about him and his body’s reactions, it’s about Gil’s ego. There’s no real choice here, only necessity, and though Sans’s whoring has never been purely business-like (he’s not so shamefaced as to pretend he’s never enjoyed himself with a John) he’s not dumb enough to cross that line with Gil. The slightest hint of generosity towards Papyrus might have changed his opinion, but as it stands Sans would gladly forgo any number of orgasms just to get this over with more quickly.

Once again, he doubts Gil will let him. With difficulty, he pushes against Gil until the cock slips free of his mouth, breathlessly gritting out, “What do you want?”

“A pussy, please,” Gil says, giving Sans’s pelvis an encouraging squeeze. The rumble of his voice suggests he’s pleased by the question, by Sans’s implicit compliance before his demand is even voiced. “I think the softness of it suits you.”

Sans doesn’t agree in the slightest, but if Gil thinks so maybe he still has an upper hand in these one-sided negotiations. The shape of his genitals have never had any effect on Sans’s temperament, but if Gil’s dumb enough to think he’ll be more pliant this way then Sans will take advantage of his misconception. 

Since Sans’s junk mostly exists in whatever form will bring him the most benefit, he’s never been too hung up on the particulars of shape or size. His cunt forms readily between his legs, already raring to go, which is good because Gil doesn’t bother with any preamble before peeling back the outer lips to reveal the slick interior. His touch feels more clinical than gratifying, as if Gil’s forgotten he’s not performing a medical inspection. Maybe he’s just intrigued by the novelty of Sans’s magical junk; ruby-tinged, translucent and elastically smooth texture. The summoned parts have a bit more give to them than fleshy monsters without any of the usual organs or tissues inside them, but Sans has sure as hell never heard any complaints from anyone lucky enough to give him a test drive.

Blunt clawed fingers scrabble their way down his slit, and Sans hides a wince of discomfort. He’s tempted to ask aloud if Gil’s ever seen a cunt before let alone touched one given how little finesse he’s using. It’s an unfortunately common phenomenon. Fleshy monsters usually only have the one set of junk to work with and they never seem to put in any practice for the parts they don’t have. Sans spreads his femurs more, trying to give Gil better access, but it doesn’t seem to help. He’s starting to wonder if he should fake a moan to encourage things along when Gil actually manages to catch him off-guard with a sudden, quick burst of rough heat as his tongue flicks across Sans’s exposed clit. The wild jerk of his hips isn’t feigned, and neither is the stuttery yelp of surprise.

“Mmm, I’ve always wondered what you’d taste like,” Gil says, bowing his head for another firm lick. His tongue is just as blunt and clumsy as his fingers, but the natural coarseness of its texture almost makes up for it. 

_Almost_. Maybe if this was Sans’s first time getting head and he didn’t know any better. As it is, the angle isn’t great for Gil’s tongue to hit his clit on every lick, and Sans’s pussy has been eaten out by much more enthusiastic participants. Still, that first lucky stroke startled a little trickle of wetness out of him, and the clenching of his cunt must catch Gil’s attention. Sans sucks air sharply between his teeth as a thick finger curls into him, too fast and at the wrong angle.

Gil seems to interpret it as a hiss of pleasure. He sounds undeservedly smug when he asks, “Do you like that?”

“Yeah.” Thankfully, Sans’s naturally husky voice makes it easy to drop into a guttural bedroom drawl. He thinks that’s what Gil wants -- another stroke to his already inflated ego -- but maybe he shouldn’t have been ignoring the Judge’s shrill warnings in the back of his mind.

“Really?” Gil asks, deceptively mild. “It shouldn’t. This isn’t for you, after all.”

The whip-crack of an electrical shock detonating right from where Gil’s fingers are still hooked into him makes Sans cry out, his whole body convulsing violently. For a moment, he’s honestly blindsided -- quite literally, his eyelights fizzle out like blown lightbulbs and his limbs spasm helplessly without any conscious control. Then the next shock crashes through him and the sensation teetering the line between pain and something unexpectedly good. The pressure in his bones rises, his ribs squeezing frantically around the empty air in his ribcage until a breathless moan is torn out of him. His entire pussy is throbbing in sharp, staccato bursts that almost feel like a mimicry of orgasm. Sans writhes senselessly, scrabbling at Gil’s hips, knowing he can’t push the bastard away and not entirely sure he would even if he had a choice. 

“You still like this?” Gil mocks, his finger delving deeper still, and it’s very unfortunate that, perversely, Sans does. Even when he increases the intensity, pouring more magic into Sans, the burn in his cunt feels incredible, rippling and squeezing around Gil’s finger until he thinks he will actually come. It’s an ugly disappointment when Gil abruptly withdraws both his hand and his electricity, leaving Sans still quivering with aftershocks and the crushing loss of near-climax. 

“I think I have something you’ll like even better,” Gil tells him, pulling away for a moment. Sans tries to catch his breath, blinking up at the ceiling, his bones rattling together with each residual tremor. The noise nearly covers the clatter of metal implements ringing together, but not quite. That sound is imprinted in Sans’s skull from his time at the lab, and he whips his head around to stare at the strangely shaped tool Gil’s just taken from a case beneath his bed. 

“What the fuck is that?” he asks, staring incredulously at the ridiculous looking thing. He’s seen some peculiar sex toys in his time, but nothing like the sleek metal contraption Gil’s holding. There’s a pair of long metal prongs that look like the bill of a duck, and a handle linked to some kind of levering mechanism. There’s no sharp or dangerous edges, but somehow that doesn’t relieve the tight knot of wary dread in Sans’s non-existent guts. 

Gil looks delighted to explain. “Humans call it a speculum. It’s a medical tool for investigating the vaginal passage. I found it in the dump, but I assure you it's been thoroughly cleaned.”

“Great,” Sans says flatly, unimpressed. Monsters aren’t prone to the same physical dysfunctions or infections as humans, but even if they’d had need for a similar tool he’s sure a monster would have designed something that looked a hell of a lot less like a torture implement. Humans were fucking bizarre. “Pretty sure I ain’t got anything interesting down there for you to look at.”

“I disagree,” Gil purrs. “It’s a part of you that no one else has ever seen so clearly, not even yourself. A special viewing of your most intimate anatomy, just for me.”

That might almost have sounded weirdly romantic if it wasn’t also as creepy as fuck. A hint of revulsion must have accidentally shown itself on Sans’s expression, because Gil’s fawning gaze turns hard and sneering. 

“Spread your legs,” he snaps, reaching over Sans’s body. Despite his ire, his cock is still hard, jutting rudely against Sans’s face as he takes a firm grip on Sans’s singed legbone and yanks it aside. Sans lets himself be arranged, staying limp, alert to the bitter smell of riled LV in the air. 

“Yeah, yeah. I’m all yours, pal,” he says, keeping his spine loose, deceptively casual. Gil’s LV isn’t anything out of the ordinary, but sometimes it just takes one wrong word or action to make a situation explode into violence. The words ring false in his own skull, but what matters is the way the leashed brutality in Gil’s movements eases back into their usual precision. When the cold, metal tip of the speculum presses against him, Sans only cants his hips towards it in silent invitation. 

“Yes,” Gil breathes in delighted fascination, applying firm pressure until the blunt beak of the tool breeches the opening of Sans’s passage. Sans flinches, more from the uncomfortable cold than its size. It eases some of the burn lingering from where Gil’s fingers zapped him, but leaves him groaning as it plunges in deeper than he was expecting. 

“Ha-!” he wheezes, fighting to keep his knees spread compliantly apart. His body isn’t sure it likes the foreign, intrusive feel of something hard and inorganic sitting stationary inside him, but what the hell. He knows people with stranger kinks, and if Gil wants to admire the shadow of it sitting inside him through his ecto-flesh it’s not such a big deal. 

“Now this part may feel a bit strange,” Gil says, his tone deceptively mild, like a serial killer preparing to disembowel a victim. “I’m going to open it now.”

“What?” Sans asks, unprepared. He hadn’t thought to consider what the actual function of the speculum was until its mechanism gives a warning creak and suddenly he feels its metal protrusions cranking apart, spreading inside him like the maw of an alligator. 

“Oh fuck,” Sans breathes, his heels digging into the mattress, trying to find purchace against the inescapable pressure. “Oh fuck, oh fuck-!”

Some of his previous partners have been reasonably girthy in the cock department, but somehow experience hasn’t prepared him for the intrusive spread of the speculum. Perhaps because there’s no gliding movement and friction to help ease him open. It’s just a sharp, yawning press against his inner walls, forcing him apart, leaving him gaping obscenely to Gil’s greedy gaze. 

“Just a bit more,” Gil soothes. Sans doesn’t need the judge to tell him Gil’s lying. The cruel device pries him open even wider until not even the padding of his ecto-flesh can cushion the strain on the inside of his bones. Sans has never had to think about the tensile strength of his pelvis, but now he’s forced to wonder how far it can stretch before something cracks. 

“W-wait,” he pants, unable to stop his voice from cracking. He’s too distracted to check his HP, but Gil smacks him hard with another burst of healing anyway. It leaves his bones tingling but does nothing to ease the torturous clench of his inner muscles fighting the wrenching pressure of the speculum. “Don’t-AUGH!”

The earlier thrum of electricity from Gil’s fingers seems downright tame compared to the bolt that cracks through the speculum, amplified by the metal and Gil’s displeasure. The hand that had thoughtlessly reached down towards the source of agony between his legs is caught firmly in Gil’s clawed grip. 

“You don’t get to make demands here, Sans,” Gil tells him cooly, squeezing the bones of Sans’s forearm until his ulna and radius start to creak. The carpels of his wrist grind together with a sickening rasp of sound, and Sans wisely lets his arm go slack, unresisting. Satisfied, Gil lets him go, smiling toothily. “Now if you need something better to do with your mouth, put it to work.”

Gil’s cock grinds meaningfully against Sans’s face and he obediently draws it back into his mouth with shaking hands. Stupid, Sans knows better than to try and tell a John to stop. That was one of the first lessons he learned. If a situation has escalated to that point, either he needs to shut up and take it or he has to commit to stopping them with force, and unfortunately he needs Gil alive and functional for Papyrus’s sake. He swallows down Gil’s cock, sockets watering as Gil brutally cranks him open until he wonders if his ecto-flesh might actually rupture in a bloody splatter of burst magic.

Thankfully, the speculum seems to have reached its limit. Gil lets it go, pawing instead at Sans’s hip joints and tailbone to position him for a better look.

“Look at you,” Gil murmurs, softly enraptured. “Spread and waiting for me. You’re so wet inside. I can see you clenching. Do you wish I was filling you up instead, Sans?”

The taste on his tongue is overwhelmingly salty and bitter, Gil’s shaft pulsing with excitement, aroused all the more from Sans’s pain and muffled sounds of discomfort. If anything, Sans is grateful for the distraction. If he focuses on his mouth, he doesn’t have to think about the miserable ache in his lower spine or the swollen agony of his over-stretched passage. He takes Gil in deep, the contortion of his jaw much more bearable and familiar, and swallows hard and repeatedly until he can feel the warning twitches. Even then he doesn’t stop or slow, letting his throat take a battering as Gil’s hips buck in an uncontrolled frenzy as orgasm takes him hard and fast. There’s a muttered curse as Gil grabs Sans’s femurs like he’s looking for a wheel to steer, but vengefully Sans doesn’t let up, sucking and licking and drinking Gil down until the last echos of Gil’s climax fade away. 

“Ah, I knew that mouth of yours was worth the trouble.” Gil straightens up, carefully withdrawing his softening cock from between Sans’s jagged teeth. All the cum Sans didn’t manage to swallow trickles from the corners of his mouth and down the sides of his face. “I had wanted to take you properly, but...well. There’s always next time.”

Thank fuck for refractory periods and Gil not having the youth or skill to get it up again immediately. Sans licks his teeth, attempting to straighten his shift from his supine position and instantly regretting it. Everything from his waist to his kneecaps hurts like a bitch. The speculum is still wedged deep inside him, twisting painfully with each movement. There's something leaking out of him, and he's pretty sure it's not arousal anymore. His summoned magic isn't filled with the same blood as his marrow, but it's his essence all the same, crimson-tinged and viscous. There's streaks of it on Gil's fingers, enough to make Sans wonder if his pussy will ever be the same after this. 

“Gil,” he says, his voice less of a warning and more of a plea. He doesn’t wholly fancy the idea of trying to contort himself to work the nasty device himself. He isn’t sure if twisting the wrong mechanism might actually do him real harm that Gil would no doubt take delight in fixing for yet another unreasonable price. 

Gil leans down, cradling Sans’s skull between his hands. His broad fingers stroke his cheekbones, smearing the sweat and come across his face. “If you want it out so badly then beg me, sweets.”

There’s nothing Sans wants more than to shove a pair of bone constructs right through Gil’s gleaming eyes. Instead he swallows back the bile in his throat and lets his expression twist into the pitiful desperation Gil wants from him. He even flushes his sockets with a sharp burst of magic that makes them ache and instinctively start to water, fat droplets welling up at the corners in false tears. “Please...take it out. It’s too much please-!”

“So soft,” Gil murmurs, the strange affection in his tone at odds with the uncomfortably possessive way his fingers dig into Sans’s bones. “I guess with your HP you’d never have reason to develop much of a pain tolerance. You’re lucky...I doubt anyone else would be as careful with you as I am.”

There’s nothing particularly careful about the way Gil’s hands glide back down the length of Sans’s bone, roughly fondling his ribs and spine until they converge down between his spread femurs again. A light tug on the speculum makes Sans wince, fingers fisting tightly in Gil’s filthy sheets.

“All right, I’m taking it out,” Gil tells him with sing-song cheer. “Three...two...one.”

The count gives Sans too much time to brace, his body coiled tight with tension and his cunt clamping down even harder on the speculum. The vicious yank that tears if free makes Sans’s entire body arch with agony even as he fails to hold back his shriek. “FUCK!”

The pain is as intense as an orgasm, wracking him with helpless shudders as the nerves in his cunt burns anew at the unprecedented abuse. His inner walls feel distended and hot, with a maddening sting that feels absurdly like friction burn. He wants to curl into a foetal ball of pain, hands clasped tightly over his throbbing magic, but it’s one thing to fake his discomfort for Gil’s pleasure and another to reveal it sincerely. He forces himself to lie still, gasping deep, uneven breaths until the debilitating agony begins to pass.

He’s only belatedly aware of Gil stroking his skull, cooing in approval. “See, you’re fine. Not even missing a fraction of HP. I’ve always taken good care of you, haven’t I, Sans?”

Sans can’t think of an appropriate response, not even a smart-ass disparagement. His mind is blank, an emptiness that feels more like the dark maw of a pitfall than anything peaceful. Thoughts refuse to form themselves entirely in self-defence as he lies there, feeling hot wet slick trickling out from his cunt as if he were bleeding, torn from the inside. He can’t be; his magic doesn’t have proper blood vessels. If it were properly ruptured, it would just disintegrate entirely. Instead, it remains, swollen and brutalised, hurting enough that he feels light-headed and dizzy. 

“I suppose that’s enough for now.” With a final pat to Sans’s head, Gil pulls back, pulling up his trousers and straightening his coat. “It would be a shame if your brother woke up too soon. The poor boy. He’s so young still, isn’t he?”

Sans would glare, but it’s too much effort to even narrow his sockets. Now that the adrenalised resolve is starting to fade, all he can feel is the unpleasant weight of his own exhaustion and the raw ache of the electrical burns spread across his femurs and pussy. The latter, at least, starts to ease when he forces his magic to dematerialise. The imprint of Gil’s intent will linger in his pelvis for a while, but at least he’ll be spared the embarrassment of walking crooked. 

“Feel free to rest up,” Gil offers benevolently, his tone full of self-congratulatory good cheer. “You were right to come to me, Sans. I’ll take care of you and your brother.”

The bastard is outright humming a cheerful tune, dangerously pleased with himself as he sweeps from the room. Only when the door shuts behind him and the sound of his footfalls recedes back down the stairs does Sans let out a real, shaky breath, holding back a whimper on his exhale. 

But it’s only pain, and not nearly as bad as what Papyrus went through at Grillby’s hands. Resolutely, Sans pushes himself up, only waiting long enough for the black spots in his sockets to clear and the nauseous vertigo to pass before he begins the arduous task of pulling his dirty clothes back on over his scorched and sensitive bones. What’s important is that Papyrus will be okay, and all the marks Gil left will fade soon enough and be forgotten. 


End file.
